Nerve
by writergal85
Summary: A story about the angst surrounding the Turnadette adoption in Episode 3.7. Written before the episode originally aired, so definitely AU now. Originally posted on my blog, now here.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's note: This is my take on the Turnadette adoption scene in Ep. 3.7., before and after, in several parts. It is definitely AU now (written before the episode originally aired). First posted on my blog, now here._**

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. With clumsy fingers, Shelagh buttoned her dress, twisted up her hair and put on her lipstick. It smudged, and she had to redo it. Twice.

 _Lord, give me strength_. She glanced at the clock – it was almost half-past – and then at the closed bathroom door. Patrick was taking an awful long time to get ready. The adoption counselors would be here soon. She should go down, get the tea things ready and make sure the house was in order. Patrick and Timothy both had dreadful habits of leaving their things – medical notes, schoolbooks, toys, odd shoes – in the strangest places.

She knocked softly on the door to the bath. "Patrick? It's nearly time."

"All right," he said over the sound of running water in the sink. "I'll be out in a moment."

"I've put a suitable tie on the bed."

Again, his reply sounded muffled and distant, though that could have just been the door between them. "All right."

The downstairs, of course, was already tidy, because she'd spent the morning dusting, sweeping and polishing every surface. Still, she took some time to plump the cushions on the sofa and moved their wedding photo on the top of the piano just an inch to the left before she went to make the tea. She just needed something to keep her hands busy.

She couldn't remember if she'd ever been this nervous – not during her nursing training or her first solo birth or the day she took her vows. When she'd been diagnosed with TB, there had only been dread, slowing her movements and dragging her under. Even on her wedding day – and wedding night – her nerves had been tempered with anticipation. She'd been certain of Patrick, of their love, and of the life they would lead together.

But lately she'd felt certain of nothing. Ever since the surgery and the news she might never conceive, she'd fumbled through life. She'd tried different things, mostly at Patrick's suggestion – working at the surgery, reviving the choir, helping out at Nonnatus – just to keep her hands busy.

More than once, she'd dreamed she was back on that foggy road where Patrick had found her last autumn, trying to walk to Poplar from the sanatorium. Only in the dreams, she wasn't sure where she was going at all, and sometimes Patrick never came.

This adoption interview was the first point of direction she'd spotted, but even it didn't signal a clear path – only more fog, until they were approved. They would be approved, wouldn't they?

All she could do now was wait, and in waiting, came the nerves and restless energy that would not dissipate.

She'd just set the tea tray on the ledge of the kitchen hatch, ready for the interviewers' arrival, when Patrick came downstairs. He was impeccably dressed in the dark suit and tie she'd put out for him.

He also looked somewhat tense, which was change enough. In the past few days, he'd been flippant, dismissive and more distracted than she'd ever seen him. When she'd asked what was wrong, he'd mumbled something about a case with a young mother who'd needed a psychological evaluation, and her heart had gone out to him. He did worry so much about his patients, especially the cases that were harder to diagnose and cure.

But she'd also wished, somewhat selfishly, that he'd worry more about the two of them, this interview and their future as a family.

Now, she took in his tensed jaw and the endearing way he fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, and felt some of her own apprehension diminish. At least today, they'd be anxious together.

"I think we're ready," she said with a bright smile, though she felt anything but. He nodded but didn't move from his place by the stairs until she walked into the sitting room and took a seat on the edge of the sofa. Then he came in and sat next to her, back straight and stiff, his left foot tapping out a nervous rhythm.

Goodness, she thought. We probably look more like two teenagers on a first date, not a married couple with an 11-year-old.

Come to think of it, their first proper "date" had been in this sitting room. She'd just officially left the order and gotten settled in her new lodgings, and Patrick had asked her over for dinner. Nothing fancy, just pie and mash, but it had been the first time she'd ever seen the inside of his home – their home now.

After dinner, Timothy had not-so-unsubtly left them alone together. They sat on this sofa, drinking tea and chatting politely about medical cases, Poplar and her plans for the week, gradually relaxing and moving closer together. She wanted him to kiss her and had wondered all evening if he would. Toward the end of the night, as he said something about walking back to her lodgings, she gathered all her courage, leaned in and kissed him, somewhat awkwardly, on the corner of his mouth.

 _When he didn't immediately react, she flushed and pulled away. "Sorry." She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap._

" _No," he said, a smile in his voice. "You surprised me that's all."_

 _Her blush flamed deeper. "I think I surprised myself."_

 _His hands covered hers, pulling her toward him and she looked up at his face again, now very close. "Come here," he whispered._

 _His lips soft were on_ _hers,_ _and for the first time that night she wasn't nervous or trembling anymore. Everything in her felt still, warm and loved._

Now, she giggled softly at the memory and Patrick looked over at her, perplexed. "What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking…our first date I think we were sat exactly like this."

He exhaled a long sigh and took his cigarette case out of his pocket. "I think I was less nervous then."

"Quite," she said with a soft laugh.

He flipped the case over and over in his hands and made to open it, but she put a hand on his knee, stilling him.

"They'll be here any moment."

"Right, of course. You're right. Sorry." He swallowed hard, put the case back in his jacket pocket, and the tapping of his foot resumed. He glanced at the clock. "They're late."

"Now I know you're really nervous." On impulse, she reached out, took his hand in both of hers – it was like ice – and pressed it to her lips. "I am, too. But I'm sure we'll do fine."

His eyes softened and he leaned forward suddenly, gripping her hand tighter. "Shelagh, I –

The doorbell rang and they both froze. "That will be the agency," she said quietly.

Neither of them moved. Patrick's fingers trembled slightly in hers and she gave them a quick, reassuring squeeze before she rose to answer the door.


	2. Chapter 2

" _I know you so little but I couldn't be more certain."_

" _I am completely certain…I don't even know your name."_

" _Shelagh."_

" _Patrick."_

" _There. We've made a start."_

Shelagh had always loved that memory. When she was still a bride-to-be, lying awake at night at her lodgings across town, she'd play it over and over in her head, until she had every detail and sensation memorized – the way Patrick had appeared out of the fog and wrapped his coat around her like an embrace. He never took his eyes off her, not even when Timothy called out from the car. It was first day she'd be been free and able to love him. The day when everything had begun.

Now, it mocked her. _I know you so little –_ she didn't know him at all. He wouldn't let her. She stood by the kitchen hatch, stirring her now-cold tea, and listened to Timothy pick out Mozart on the piano, as snippets from the afternoon's disastrous interview played in her mind.

" _You must understand," he said. "It – it was the end of the war. I was medical corps. Trying to save lives at the front –"_

"— _you were an inpatient at Northfield Psychiatric Hospital," the interviewer countered. "For five months. While you were being treated for war neurosis."_

Shelagh felt suddenly as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and she gasped for breath. She hadn't known. She didn't know anything. She glanced over at her husband, and he looked like he was drowning, too.

Oh. Oh Patrick. If you had told me, if you had said anything….

But he didn't tell you.

And the interviewer knew it. Her final words cut Shelagh to the heart.

" _We believe a child should be placed in a home where truth and trust are central to that home."_

They'd argued after the adoption counselors left.

" _Why didn't you tell me?"_

" _I didn't think she'd go through my entire history!"_

" _She is placing a child, she needs to know who she is placing it with – so do I."_ She stepped closer, ready to embrace him, support him, whatever he needed. _"What happened to you?"_

He sighed. _"I – I can't talk about it."_

The words stung like a blow. He'd always talked to her, through every terrible case, every time a patient died, when Timothy had gotten ill – they'd talked. Why wouldn't he talk to her now, when he was so clearly in pain?

" _If you think we can forget this, you don't know me. I won't live with this between us, Patrick!"_

" _I manage! I manage by keeping it behind me."_

" _How can you treat others when you so clearly cannot treat yourself?"_

She wiped a tear away with her index finger and set the pans from dinner in the sink to soak. She shouldn't have said that - not in that way. He run from her then, his face crumpled in sorrow and hurt, and hadn't come back.

It'd been almost four hours. She'd made dinner, she and Timothy had eaten, she'd sent Timothy to practice his piano, and still, Patrick hadn't come home. Or called. Where was he?

Timothy's face appeared through the opening of the kitchen hatch. "I'm done practicing," He frowned. "Dad's still not back?"

"He's just gone on – " _Truth and trust,_ the counselor had said. "He went out. I'm sure he'll be back soon."

"Can I put on _The Lone Ranger_?"

"Have you finished your homework?"

"Yes – well, except math."

"Finish it, please. And then have your bath."

The boy heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes but went to his room with his schoolbooks.

Left alone again, with her hands idle, the house felt too still and quiet. She went to the sitting room cabinet, opened the small drawer where Patrick kept extra cigarettes and matches, grabbed her cardigan and went out on the back step to smoke. There at least she had the sounds of the street traffic and the distant river to soothe her jangled nerves.

After a few deep draws of the cigarette and the crisp autumn air, her head began to clear, and she felt able to really think again for the first time since that afternoon.

It was true; she had entered marriage with little knowledge of her husband or his history, but the unknown hadn't bothered her. Over time, she would learn him – she'd been a very eager pupil, right from the start – and Patrick had been open and patient. They'd had their shy, awkward moments, of course, especially at the beginning of their courtship, but there had been nothing hidden between them. No lies. No secrets.

Except this one. If he has just told her, at any point in their marriage, she would have understood. She was sure he'd been prepared to lie to that interviewer. Worse, he'd made her look like a liar, too. Angry tears sprang up in her eyes and her hands shook as she finished the cigarette.

 _Why wouldn't he tell me?_ Surely he knew he could trust her to listen and to understand? After all, she'd confided and trusted in him.

Last Christmas, during the bomb evacuation, the first place she'd wanted to be wasn't the rescue center or even Nonnatus House. It was his home, because it already felt like her home – and she didn't care what the neighbors might say. He made her feel safe. Since then, she'd shared her hopes, her fears and her pain with him freely.

It hadn't always been easy, learning to share her life. She was used to quiet, the stillness of her own thoughts, early mornings, and neat and tidy surroundings. Quiet, neat and still were not three adjectives often used to describe the Turner men, she thought with a wry smile. And as for early mornings…well, she still had those to herself.

She'd had to learn to trust in other ways, too. She'd never even held hands with a man before Patrick – not in that way. Her desire for him thrilled her, but at the beginning of their marriage she'd been shy, and unsure of how to be with him once they were alone. Patrick, for his part, was a tender and careful lover, and she adored him for it.

And yet, there had been times, when it felt like he was being too careful, even distant. He took her hand, rather than embrace her. He kissed her cheek, instead of her mouth. Even when they'd been alone lately, he'd take the seat across from her, rather than next to her, where she wanted him.

Just last week, he'd pushed her away, while they were sharing sandwiches in his office during the lunch hour.

"There was an article about the procedure in a recent copy of the _Lancet_. I was meaning to show Sister Julienne, if I can find it again," he said, taking a bite of his ham and cheese and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Have you checked the bedside table? That's where you left the last one." He'd missed a smidgen of mustard on his lips. She bit back a giggle.

"I looked there last night – what?"

"Um, you've still got mustard on your mouth."

"Where?" He picked up the crumpled napkin from among the piles of textbooks and medical notes and furiously swiped at his top lip, completely missing the smudge.

She sighed. He was a mess. But he was _her_ mess.

"Come here." She leaned over to wipe the spot off with her thumb, then thought better of it, and kissed him instead, delicately licking the errant mustard from the corner of his mouth. He shuddered and she pressed closer to deepen the kiss.

He put his hands on her shoulders and gently set her away.

"Shelagh," he breathed, his eyes wide and wondering. "What if a patient arrives? The waiting room door's wide open."

She glanced through at the empty surgery lobby and raised an eyebrow in challenge. "So close it."

His breath hitched, his eyes sparked with something familiar and wonderful, and for a moment she thought she'd won. He'd close the door and they'd have ten blissful, stolen minutes alone together in the middle of the day (it had happened before).

But then she'd seen wall coming down in his mind and the spark in his eyes dulling, and he turned back to his desk.

"I'm sorry." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I can't – not today. I've got so much work – and really, we shouldn't here. If someone came in –"

"It's all right, Patrick." She smiled to hide her disappointment – but he wasn't even looking at her. "I understand. I'll leave you to it." She gathered the remains of her lunch and left to finish it at her own desk.

At the time, she'd convinced herself it was work that kept him from indulging with her, or that he had stopped her because he knew how important it was to her to maintain professionalism and respect among patients and nurses. He set her away because he cared.

But perhaps that wasn't care, but fear. Distrust. He kept his distance because he was afraid she'd get too close, dig too deep and hurt him.

She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself and began to pace the short width of the back step. Why? Why would he think that? What had she ever done but love him? When had she ever hurt him or set him at a distance when he needed her?

Her mind spun back through their time together.

There'd been the letters to the sanatorium that she hadn't answered, too afraid of what it would mean if she did.

And that kiss – their first kiss, in the kitchen at the parish hall. He'd reached out and she'd turned her back on him, then avoided him for weeks. Yes, his actions had been forbidden at the time, but she could have at least had the courage to speak to him. Maybe if she had they wouldn't have spent so much time confused and alone. Maybe they wouldn't be confused and alone now.

But both of those were minor sins, surely - they'd found each other in the end, right? She twisted the corner of her cardigan in her fist, and realized, they might not feel minor to him.

And when Timothy was ill and in the hospital – she walked away then, too. She'd left Patrick alone by their child's bedside, because she was so scared Timothy might die, she hadn't known what to do with her grief. It had taken prayer and comfort from Sister Julienne before she found the strength to go back and face the awful possibilities by his side.

And she'd walked away now. She'd walked away the moment she'd decided not to run after Patrick.

The sky was nearly dark and she squinted at her watch. He'd been gone almost five hours. Her heart stuttered in a brief panic. He'd been away longer on calls before, of course, but then she always knew where he was.

Now she had no idea.

Her chill increased and her teeth chattered. Where did he go when he wanted to be alone? The surgery? A pub? A park? The river? She didn't even know where to start. She could ask Timothy, but she didn't want him to worry –

There – what was that? The door? She turned back and went into the house. She heard the swish of his coat on the rack, saw his tall familiar shadow in the hall and felt all the anxiety leave her in a shivering rush. It was him. He was home.


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick trudged into the sitting room, heading for the kitchen, but stopped when he saw her. "Shelagh."

His voice sounded hollow, cracked and dry, like he'd spent a lot of time shouting – or crying. And judging by the stunned look on his face, he clearly hadn't expected to see her standing there, hair whipped by the wind out of its neat chignon, cardigan clutched around her, and back door left wide open and swinging on its hinges.

"Where have you been?" she cried, a little harsher than she intended. "You were gone so long. I – I was worried."

"Out. I went out," he said quietly. "To a pub for a while, then the surgery. I had some paperwork I wanted to finish."

"Oh."

He didn't move and neither did she. His dark suit was rumpled, tie askew, hair mussed - he might have just come back from a busy day at the clinic or a rough midnight birth. Absurdly, her mind went through the motions of the things she would normally do and things she would normally say when Patrick came home late. _How was your day? Kiss on the cheek. There's dinner in the oven. Sit beside him. I found some new music for the choir today. I think Timothy's still struggling with math…_

A swift breeze reminded her she had left the back door opened and she turned to shut it. Patrick sank down on the couch.

She stared at the back of his head. She could hear his quick, shallow breathing, like he was struggling to maintain his composure, and she felt her own calm slipping away again. _How could he not tell her? How could she ever trust him again?_

His breath caught in a sob – just one – and the last of her anger dissipated like smoke. Not tonight. They were done arguing, for tonight. She crept slowly over to the couch. Would he let her touch him?

She decided on sitting next to him, much as they had during the interview – close, bodies turned toward one another, but not touching.

When he didn't move away, she took a chance and placed her hand on his, where it rested, limp, by his side.

He let out a long, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry." He shook his head and his body began to tremble with near-silent sobs. "I've – I've ruined it. I've ruined everything."

His shoulders slumped forward and his hands covered his face, his entire body curling inward, like he was trying to protect himself from a blow.

She leaned against him, an arm threaded through the crook of his elbow and her cheek resting on his shoulder. She refrained from embracing him; she wasn't ready for that right now. Instead, she just closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet smoky scent of whiskey and the outdoors clinging to him, trying to find some measure of comfort in their familiarity. She hoped he could find some comfort in her, even as he continued to cry.

They sat like this for age, until the clock struck nine and she was reminded of the hour. Patrick's sobs had quieted now, and he only trembled every now and then. She placed a gentle hand on his back.

"Have you eaten anything?"

He shook his head, sniffling.

"You should eat. All you've had is whiskey and you'll feel better with something in your stomach. I've kept a plate warm for you. All right?"

He nodded, rose slowly, and shuffled toward the table.

She took the plate out of the oven, poured a glass of water and set both in front of him, along with a knife, fork and serviette. He ate mechanically, lifting fork to mouth in sluggish, heavy motions, swallowing as if each mouthful took effort. He didn't look at her, and after a few moments she couldn't sit across from him anymore. She went to finish washing the dinner pans, and if she cried, it was only because of the sting of the hot water on her skin.

He looked so...broken, and for the dozenth time that day she wished he could just tell her what had happened to him, so that he could begin to heal.

And it wasn't fair. She hurt, too, she needed comfort too - she needed a spouse she could trust. She needed the man she knew. She needed Patrick. Gentle, kind, disheveled, passionate Patrick. Not this blank-faced, weary stranger who wouldn't even meet her eye.

The rattle of a plate on the counter drew her out of her reverie. He'd barely eaten half of his dinner. Without a word, she scraped the remainder into the rubbish bin, then took his hand and led him upstairs.

How many times had they climbed these stairs to their bedroom together, giddy and breathless, stopping every few steps for a kiss? The third step from the top creaked like a shot, she'd learned soon after their marriage, for it was that step that often woke her from dozing, signaling that Patrick was home after a late call-out

As she ran her hand over the banister, one memory from long before their wedding came to mind.

It was a week or two after their engagement and she'd come over to make dinner for the three of them before Patrick came home.

He was late, as usual, so she gave Timothy his dinner and set him to finishing his homework. She cleaned the kitchen and then wandered into the hall to get the book she'd brought from her purse.

She passed the stairs and stopped. She'd only been to Patrick's house twice since their engagement and while she knew the downstairs well, she'd never been shown the upstairs, where the bedrooms were. It would be her home, and her bedroom as well soon enough, but it seemed like an awkward, possibly improper thing to ask.

Even though she was just a little bit curious.

She placed her foot on the first step.

"Snooping Miss Mannion?"

She spun around on the stair so quickly she had to grab the banister for support.

"Patrick! I didn't even hear you come in. I wasn't – I was just –" she blushed and looked down at her feet, ashamed. She'd been prepared to invade his privacy and betray his trust. When he wanted her to see the rest of the house, he'd show it to her. "I'm sorry."

He laughed and she looked up. "Shelagh, I was only teasing. This will be your home. You can go wherever you like." He stepped closer and took both her hands in his. "Perhaps, I should give you the full tour," he said in a low voice that set her body humming and her mind flashed forward two months' time, when they'd stand on these steps as husband and wife. She blushed anew.

"I'm sorry – that was crass –"

"No, Patrick. It's all right. I'd like to see the rest of the house. And I trust you'll be on your best behavior," she said, with a teasing smirk.

He led her up the stairs and down the narrow hall. "It's not much," he said, opening the first door on the left. "Tim's room – sorry, it's probably a mess."

She looked past him into the small room. Clothes and toys were strewn on the floor, but her eye went to the walls, papered with drawings. She smiled. That was Timothy.

She followed Patrick to the next door. "This is just a box room," he said, gesturing inside the small, dark space, littered with a few lonely boxes, an old wooden chest and hobby horse she guessed had been Timothy's. "I mostly use it for storage now," he said. "But we could turn it into a study or sewing room or…something."

 _Or a nursery,_ she thought. They hadn't talked about children yet, but she desperately wanted to. And judging from his sheepish grin, Patrick did too.

But another day. Now he was leading her to the last door at the end of the hall. He took her hand again and gave her fingers a light squeeze.

"And this," he said, opening the door. "Will be our room."

Almost a year later, the room had not changed in fundamentals, but in small touches. There was a new quilt on the bed that they now shared, and new, lighter curtains on the windows. Her vanity and mirror now stood in the corner. The stack of medical journals on Patrick's side of the bed was a little smaller and neater, and there was only one tie draped over the nearby chair, rather than seven. Her side of the bed held her diary, her Bible, a novel she was reading and a vase with a bunch of carnations Patrick had bought her the week previous. They were dying now; she took them to the adjacent bath to toss them out.

They undressed and prepared for bed silently, on opposite sides of the room, each avoiding the eyes of the other. While Patrick was in the bath, Shelagh went down the hall to say goodnight to Timothy.

"Is Dad back?" he asked as he climbed into bed.

The innocence of his question pained her, but her throat and eyes remained dry; perhaps she had cried all she could today.

"Yes. He's tired, but he says goodnight." She summoned a weak smile for her stepson. "Goodnight, Timothy."

" 'Night Shelagh."

Patrick was already in bed, lights out, his face turned toward the window, but she could tell by his tense, curled position he wasn't asleep yet. The room felt filled up with his pain, with no space for her or what she felt. She took a step back; she'd go downstairs and read for an hour until he was asleep and then come up.

No, don't be ridiculous. Don't be cruel. He is still your husband. Go to him.

She crept into the room as quietly as she could, set her glasses on her bedside table and slid beneath the sheets, lying stiff and straight on the edge of the mattress.

She expected Patrick to reach for her, but he didn't and she didn't move toward him. She expected they both needed the space now and for once, she was glad of the distance. They lay awake, six inches of coolness between them, and listened to the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick Turner had just arrived on the doorstep of 24 Bermondsey Lane and put the key in the lock when the door swung open and his son came barreling out.

"Tim, what's the hurry? And where are you off to? Have you had your supper?"

"Already ate Dad. Shelagh said I could play out for a while."

"As long as he stays away from mud puddles." His wife appeared at the door as Tim ran off to play. "Hello, Patrick. You're early today."

He'd been home early as many days as he could manage it recently. They hadn't argued again since the day of the adoption interview – nearly two weeks ago now – but things hadn't felt normal either. There was a new restraint in Shelagh's manner and smile that scared him. He'd hidden something from her and she'd decided to hide too.

"I was able to finish house calls early." He reached for her hand, an automatic gesture, and for the first time in days, she didn't pull back. He grasped her fingers lightly in his own and felt a surge of hope. Perhaps they were slowly making their way back to each other.

Then she drew her hand from his and turned away. "Your supper's getting cold."

He dropped his bag and shucked off his coat, heart and feet heavy once more. The morning after the interview, he'd apologized, sincerely and profusely, to Shelagh. He should have been more forthright about his military service; he should have told her of his past treatment. She'd been blindsided during the interview, and that was wrong. But he'd been so worried that the record of his time at Northfield would hurt their chances of adopting, and that it would hurt her if she knew. He hadn't meant to cause her pain.

"I know, Patrick. I know you would never deliberately –" her voice caught. She rose and gathered the remaining breakfast dishes. "I just need some time. Now we should go or we'll be late for work."

The days since had felt like the very early days of their relationship, when she was still Sister Bernadette and he, only Dr. Turner. Their conversations revolved mostly around work and Timothy and were burdened by things unsaid.

But they were still husband and wife, and every once in a while, one of them would slip into their old familiar flirtations. She'd respond teasingly to something he'd said and he'd lose himself in her eyes. He would feel her staring at him across the clinic, but when he turned, she'd look away. They went to bed separately now and rarely touched, though just this morning he had woken up to find her head buried in his shoulder and her hand clutched tightly around his arm, as if she were afraid he'd leave while she slept. He'd pretended to doze a while longer, enjoying the small contact, until Shelagh woke and went downstairs.

The distance between himself and his wife pained Patrick, but they'd found their way to each other once. They could do it again. They just had to keep looking for the right road.

She set a plate – roast beef and vegetables – in front of him.

"Looks delicious," he said with a grin. She smiled tightly back at him and turned for the kitchen.

"Sit with me? Please?" It pained him to ask – he'd never had to before – but he was tired and frustrated by this distance. He hadn't slept well since their argument. Though the morning had been slow and full of paperwork, his afternoon rounds had been plagued by a series of sniffly, feverish children, signaling the start of another flu season in Poplar. And as much as he tried to reassure their mothers it was nothing serious, each one insisted on peppering him with dozens of worried questions that kept him longer and longer at each house. He'd rushed through his final two calls, eager to get home to Shelagh, forgetting until he reached the front door that he was unlikely to get a warm welcome.

He held out his hand. He wanted his wife back.

She took her teacup off the ledge of the kitchen hatch and sat across from him. "How was your day?"

He sighed. "Long – or it seemed that way. Six flu cases in a row. We may be on our way to an epidemic."

She frowned. "Any serious cases?"

"No," he said between bites of his dinner. "But the weather isn't helping. All this cold rain, children kept in close quarters –"

"All those worried mothers, nerves frayed to bits."

"Yes," he said, with a slight laugh. It was as if she'd read his mind. "How was your day?"

She shrugged and took a sip of her tea. "Uneventful. I had tea with Colin's mother again. She lent me some records. I've been listening to them."

"New pieces for the choir?"

"No," she said, with a shy smile. "Nat King Cole and Rosemary Clooney."

"I didn't know you liked Nat King Cole or Rosemary Clooney," he teased.

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me, Patrick."

The words were teasing, the implication behind them a penknife slipped in his ribs. He set down his knife and fork, appetite gone.

"I've said I'm sorry, Shelagh. It's been two weeks. What more do you want from me?"

"I know you're sorry." She took his hand. "I'm sorry, too. But if we're going to move past this – for you to move past this – we have to talk about it. About what happened to you. You have to tell me – or if not me, someone. You need help –"

"I can't," he said tersely. "I've tried, Shelagh." Every time he tried to start talking about the war and Northfield, his mind simply clamped down on the images like a vice. He choked on the words. The pain was untranslatable. He slipped his fingers from hers. "I can't."

She stood. "I should call Timothy in. It's getting dark."

She left and he resumed eating. Every bite tasted like ash in his mouth.

" _You've got some nerve, Mrs. Turner."_

 _She giggled. He'd been calling her that all evening and hearing it made her flush with happiness. Nine hours wed and she was already in love with her new name._

 _Of course, her fondness for it may have had something to do with the way Patrick was punctuating each word with a kiss, slowly making his way down her abdomen. "Mrs. Turner…Mrs. Turner…"_

"Mrs. Turner? We've finished putting away the chairs. Is there anything else?"

She shook herself out of her reverie. Mr. and Mrs. Hoxton, two members of the choir, were staring at her. So was Timothy. Good gracious, had she really been thinking about _that?_ Now? Her cheeks burned.

"Thank you for staying behind to help. I'll see you next week." She gathered up her music and moved toward the doors of the community centre. "Come along, Timothy."

It'd been nearly two weeks since the adoption interview and her argument with Patrick. Two weeks of cordial but cold conversations and polite false smiles. Two weeks of avoiding him whenever he was at the house. Two weeks without so much as a kiss.

The distance was mostly her doing, but it was beginning to affect her in the strangest ways. She tried to keep busy with housework and preparing the choir for their competition, but then in the middle of it all, she'd forget and think about him.

The last time she'd been this dreamy, she was still at the convent, praying to God to show her a way back to her religious calling. Then the images had been fuzzy, brief and mostly chaste. Now that she knew what she'd had (and enjoyed) everything snapped to focus in very sharp, embarrassing detail. Even her body betrayed her. Yesterday morning, despite her resolution to remain firmly on her side of the bed, she'd woken up to find herself practically curled around Patrick. Thankfully he was still asleep and hadn't noticed.

It wasn't purely the physical closeness she missed. She missed talking to him – really talking, about how she felt, what she wanted and what she dreamed about. She missed laughing and seeing him laugh; they hadn't laughed in an age. She missed the comfortable, easy way they use to have with each other. She used to feel at peace in her home. Now every day she looked for an escape.

Yesterday she'd gone to tea with Jane Monk. She'd brought along her knitting, and they'd put on a few records while they worked.

The soft sound of strings reverberated from the player. "Oh, I love this song," Jane said, setting down her needles for a moment. "Phil and I dance to it sometimes, after Colin has gone to bed."

A smooth, silky voice, like rich cream, poured out of the speaker. Shelagh's hands stilled.

 _"When I fall in love…it will be forever….for I'll never fall…in love….in a restless world, like this is…love is ended before it's begun…"_

Tears pricked her eyes. What if this was the end? What if it was over?

Jane frowned in concern. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing," she said, blinking away her tears and forcing a smile. "Patrick and I had a small argument that's all. We're not talking very much at the moment."

Jane squeezed her hand. "I'm sure it will blow over soon. These things always do. Sooner or later they realize they're in the wrong and make-up for it."

"Yes," she said, attacking her knitting once more.

Before she left, Jane pressed a stack of records into her hands. "Ask him to dance. It may help smooth the way."

When she got home, she put the record on again and listened, swaying alone in the empty living room. Patrick wasn't much of a dancer and neither was she; he'd joked once that they had four left feet between them. But she did have some rather fond memories involving Johnny Mathis, a shared glass of whiskey and the sitting room sofa.

She wrapped her arms around herself. Oh, she missed him.

In her heart, she'd long forgiven him for not telling her about his time at Northfield. What bothered her more was his insistence on keeping it buried – of "managing" as he put it. He couldn't just ignore his personal problems and hope they would go away. What would happen if the two of them ever had problems? What happened when she had problems she wanted to discuss with him?

She remembered confiding in Patrick about her grief over her infertility. The baby's nightdress she'd made kept reminding her of her pain.

"Put it away, Shelagh," he'd said. "Put it in the drawer."

If they put all their problems in a drawer, what would happen to their marriage?

"How come Dad didn't know there was choir practice tonight?" Timothy asked suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.

She shrugged. "Oh, you know your father. He forgets things sometimes."

Patrick had come to the centre with the men's group that evening, expecting to teach a health education session, but she'd sent them off with a brisk, "No, you are not." She wished now she hadn't been so harsh, but the petulant whine in his voice set her teeth on edge. He knew she had choir at this time every week. Where else did he think she went in the evenings?

Timothy sighed. "Yeah, he does. Did he forget to tell you something? Only you seem rather cross lately."

"Your father and I –" How to explain? How much should she tell her stepson?

Timothy's face wrinkled in a worried frown and even in the dark, she could see the apprehension in his eyes. He was a child. He needed reassurance, not more pain. There was already enough of that in the house.

 _Put it away, Shelagh. Put it in the drawer._

"I'm sorry if I've been cross. It's nothing you need to worry about."


	5. Chapter 5

Shelagh stared at the letter. Read the line again. It wasn't possible, was it?

 _You have been accepted as adoptive parents and will be placed on a waiting list pending the advent of a suitable child._

A tear slipped down her cheek and fell on the paper. She quickly wiped it away. She didn't want anything smudging or marring this message. After a year of grief, this was the first, precious bit of hope, so small she dared not even grab onto it yet.

They were going to have a baby. She and Patrick weren't even speaking right now, and they were going to have another child.

It was all wrong.

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. "Shelagh? Can I come in?"

Patrick. He'd gotten the mail, and he'd looked so stunned as he read the letter, she was sure it was bad news. Then she'd read it, and was so stunned herself she felt like she needed to lie down. She didn't even really remember walking to the bedroom.

She quickly wiped her eyes and sat up straighter on the bed. "Yes."

He poked his head through the door, then seeing her, came and knelt at her feet. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. A suitable child. A baby. They were going to have a baby.

"Happy?" A gentle hand on her knee and she looked into his face. A nervous smile played on his lips, but the joy in his eyes – it was what she had dreamed about for so long. If only...

"Y-yes," she said, the word catching on sobs. She was happy. Relieved. Ecstatic.

And absolutely terrified she might suddenly find herself doing all of this alone.

Patrick sat on the bed beside her and she leaned into his embrace. It had been so long since he'd held her and it felt so, so good, it gave her the courage to say what she needed to.

"But I'm - I'm scared, too, Patrick."

"Shelagh, you'll be a wonderful mother – you are a wonderful mother. It will—"

"No!" She pulled away. "I don't want you to say it will be all right. I want you to say you're scared too. That we fought and you're worried about – about us! About this marriage! I want you to admit there is a problem."

He looked at her, mouth agape. She saw the fear in his eyes; she saw that he wanted to run, to deny, to keep on managing. She waited.

"I'm – I'm scared too," he said, quiet as a sigh. "I'm scared too."

She took his hand, encouraging him to continue.

"These past two weeks, Shelagh – I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. Everything seemed wrong. You said I needed to talk about – about what happened. But you weren't talking to me – at all! About anything!"

"I needed time," she said, wrapping her other arm around his back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you so far away. You were so far away. It was awful."

"I felt – lost." His voice shook. "And every time I thought about the interview – and her questions – and your face – and what you said, about how you couldn't live with it between us. If I told you…I thought you'd leave. I was so worried you'd leave."

"I couldn't leave you," she said, embracing him tighter and feeling his arms come around her as he wept. "I couldn't leave you and Timothy. I love you. You are my life."

They held each other for a few moments, relishing the closeness after so long apart. Patrick broke the silence first, sniffling loudly.

"I'm sorry. I – I don't seem to have a handkerchief on me."

She chuckled. "You rarely do. Oh, it's all right, hold on." She rose and grabbed the box of tissues off her vanity, wiping her eyes and then passing the box to her husband.

"Thanks." He blew his nose loudly and leaned back on the bed. She crawled up and lay beside him.

"A baby," he said in wonder. "Christ – at my age? Do you realize that by the time this child is Tim's age, I'll be close to retirement? Why are you laughing at me?"

"Oh, you'll never retire," she said, kissing him softly on the cheek, then brushing her thumb over the mark her lipstick left. He shut his eyes briefly in contentment.

"Patrick? If we're going to be good parents to Timothy and this child, – whoever he or she may be – we can't fight like this."

He covered his hand with hers. "We're going to, though. We're not always going to agree on everything."

Yes. She knew that. She just didn't like thinking about another conflict now, not when she'd just got him back. She scooted closer. "Well, then we always have to talk about things. We can't just keep trying to manage."

"You mean I can't keep trying to manage."

She brushed her thumb over his cheek again, wishing she could brush away the pain in his eyes. "Yes."

He swallowed. "I know. I'm searching for a way, I really am."

"Keep searching. And when you're ready to talk about it – any of it – I'm here. I'm always here. You won't frighten me away."

He kissed her, slow and languid. But something else still bothered her.

"What is it?" he asked, when she pulled away.

She sighed. "Nothing really."

"I thought we were talking."

"It's just – it wasn't supposed to be like this – us fighting and you opening the letter and then me running off and bursting into tears. We're going to have another child. This was supposed to be a happy moment." She could feel tears rising again and she looked away, fiddling with a loose thread on the duvet.

Patrick raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Wait here."

She pushed herself up on the bed, watching him as he crawled to the edge and picked up the letter that had fallen to the floor. He returned to sit by her side and handed it to her.

"Now, tell me what it says."

She smiled slowly, seeing his plan. She loved him.

"It says, we've been accepted. We're going to have a child together."

And even if the moment wasn't exactly as she'd once imagined in a girlish fantasy, it didn't matter. The look of wonder, elation and love on his face – that was all she ever wanted. Love was all she ever wanted to give him.

"Yes," he said, pulling her in for another kiss. "Yes, we are."


End file.
